Back To The Future – Part 1 of 2

Combat Dave, Going Postal

October 1976.

It’s Tuesday night in the Riser (The Rising Sun pub) in a small south coast town in Hampshire. The time is 7.45 pm. Combat Dave, 20, is stood at the bar, by the open hatch with a half empty pint of Trophy bitter. The hatch is a good place to stand, as it’s where the bar staff stand when they’re not serving and if you’re on your own for a while, you get to chat as they walk by. He’s waiting for “the lads”. Tuesday night is lad’s night,. Mind you, so is Friday night, but some of the boys come in with their girlfriends and the conversation is somewhat different compared to the “good old days”.
At 7.50 the door opens and Pete walks in. He’s one of “the lads”. “Alright, Pete? You’re 5 minutes fucking late, you’ll be losing your club badge and blazer if you don’t watch out.”
“Bollocks.” “Ha, ha, ha, fuck off, you prick.”
“I’ll have a pint of Harp, please, Ken.” Ken reaches up to take one of the mugs from it’s hook above the bar. Pete finishes his Bensons and stubs it out in the half full ashtray, by the empty sandwich dispenser.
“No sarnies left, Ken?”
 “No, sorry, they all went at lunchtime.”
 “No problem, I didn’t fancy a curled up egg and cress sarnie, anyway.”
 “You want to drink this pint or wear it, you cheeky cunt?”
“Ha ha ha ha.”
“I’ll have a packet of Smiths then. Cheese and onion. Got any pickled onions?”
“Yep, and I’ve just got a new jar of pickled eggs in.”
“Oh yes, give us an egg and I bung it in the packet.”
“There you go, mush, 60 pence, please.” Pete bungs him a fiver.
 “Oh and give us a 50 for the fag machine and some 20s for the juke box as well, please, Ken.”
“Thought you’d be at the Stoke match tonight, Dave.”
 “Fuck off, two weeks ago I went all the way to Notts County stood in the pissing rain all night and all for a 0-0 draw. Their away end is shit. No roof.”
“Who’s playing darts tonight, Ken?”
“It’s the D team versus the Swan C team.”
 “I bet they get fucking sandwiches.”
“Fuck off, Dave or I’ll bar you.”
“Ha ha ha ha.”
Pete went up to the juke box and surveyed the selection list. What we having then? Whenever I start to look I can’t decide what to choose.”
 “Hang on let’s have a look.” Dave pulls out his No 10 packet and sticks a ciggie in his mouth.
“Come on, you tight git, flash the ash then. Fuck me, you’re like a bloody dentist. Takes ‘em out one at a time.”
 “Ha ha ha ha.”
Smoke on the Water is blasting out as Rich and Neil come through the door. They immediately go into air guitar mode.  Pete plays the air drums. “Da da da da da da da…” “We allll came out to Montreaux, on the lake Gen—”
“Shut up, you wankers!”
 “Ayyyyyyyyy!!!!!
“ Ha ha ha ha.”
“Ruby Murray tonight, anyone?”  Rich shakes his head. “I’m broke once I’ve had me 4 pints and Ken won’t do a cheque.”
 “I’ll lend you a bluey. Only ‘til Friday though.”
“Oh,  cheers, Pete. Thanks. Friday it is then.”
“Let’s face it, it’s the only place we’ll get another pint after 10.30. Bloody licensing laws.”
“No lock in, tonight?”
“No, Ken won’t coz the away team will want one. Fucking Swanner wankers.”
Pete goes to the payphone by the gents. He shovels some 2p’s in. “Yeah? Yeah? Really? Yayyyyy, fucking get in there!”
 He shouts across the blue haze, “2-1, wanker boys!!! We got the winner in the last minute. Wish I’d gone now, always good to come home with a point in each pocket.”
 “Ha ha ha ha.”
A girl from the lounge bar walks through to go to the toilet. “Oi oi, I would!” She doesn‘t miss a step, “Fuck off, Dave. You already have and you’re shit!”
 “WAYYYYYYYYYY!!!” choruses around the pub. Dave blushes slightly….and come’s back at them. “Fuck off, you wankers!”
 “Ha ha ha ha.”
We going down the Crown on Friday, then.?”
 “Why?”
“They’ve got one of those toasty machines.”
 “What’s that, then?”
“Well, it cooks toasties, you twat. You kind of put a slice of bread on the bottom fill it with Chilli or cheese and onion or summit, put another slice on top then close it up and in 2 minutes it’s ready.”
“They fucking burn you’re gob off if you eat ‘em to soon, though.”
“Ha ha ha ha.”
“Christ, hot food in a pub just in time for the winter. Brilliant. Whatever will they think of next? They might—————————The picture goes all wobbly and wavy and the pub and “the lads” fade from view—–slowly—-and gone.

Combat Dave ©